


The Story Teller

by tsoumasd



Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:27:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsoumasd/pseuds/tsoumasd
Summary: In Elsewhere University, your Name is a high-end secret. You hold onto it with teeth (human, sharp, wolf-like) and breaking fingernails (fake, talons, claws) and you bleed -oh, you bleed- over it but you never, ever, give your Name to someone.





	The Story Teller

In Elsewhere University, your Name is a high-end secret. You hold onto it with teeth (human, sharp, wolf-like) and breaking fingernails (fake, talons, claws) and you bleed -oh, you bleed- over it but you never, ever, give your Name to someone.

She was called Cloudhead but They, They called her Story-Teller. She considered it an honour; to be marveled at for her ability to lie lie lie and entice them for all that matters. Of course, she was no fool; the Attention of the fair folk, prosperous as it can be, was also dangerous. She was, of course, in the Know. Even more, she was Involved. Still, she always had salt in a leather pouch, hanging from her waist, and she wore iron jewelry and that one necklace a boy had once given her, completely made of iron, bathed in sea-salt, covered in so much love and want and lust. 

She had other things, too. Things that only worked for her and hers, because there is power in belief, if nowhere else, here. She always wore her hair braided -if not all, at least part of it- but never on Fridays. She manically drew smiley faces on the forty-sixth page, at the rightmost corner of every notebook. No friend of hers ever scribbled over her doodles. She left them, deliberately, on their books. She scrawled them on their papers, on the desks at the library (though the Librarians had given her hell for it) even going as far as to draw them on their and her wrists. 

She left butter on benches every Monday and ketchup that looked so much, too much like blood on Saturdays. She firmly believed that her roommate would never (could never!) be Taken, and so far, she hadn’t. Cloudhead told herself it was because of her belief; the roommate insisted it was because they always wore their socks inside out. It mattered not.

She was an English major and History minor. This meant that all her stories were half-truths. It also meant that she was good at telling stories. It made people wonder if she was, after all, a changeling. She wasn’t one, but she did despise outright lying. Her stories were a mix of literature, history, gossip and imagination, all blended with a dose of otherworldliness, just like the Elsewhere residents liked it. 

A decaying dragon sleeping beneath the chemistry labs, keeping the testing tubes warm. A friendly -how come? - mermaid-like Gentry hiding in the swimming pool, making sure the Elsewhere swimming team members could hold their breath for well over a minute. A girl turned into a grill and stuck somewhere in between; nothing more than stories, the Story-Teller reassured them. 

But for all her nodding and smiling and polite polite polite gifts of flowers, “freely given”, they feared her. The humans could not tell if she was fae-touched, favoured or gentry all together. Her tales held too much power. They were so believable, so mesmerizing, that a garden of intoxicating flowers popped up just north of the football field. It was all part of a story she waved about a boy who tried to wake up his lover with True Love’s Kiss. When his lover stayed asleep, the boy cried and cried, half the time wishing that he’d fall asleep as well and the other half praying for his dark-haired prince to wake up and never ever sleep again. The flowers were gorgeous and entirely otherworldly: some could make you sleep for years while others made sure you never slept a wink for the rest of the school year. A couple desperate students had tried -and used- them. It did not end well. 

She made deals in stories too. 

A love story for a perfect grade, a tragedy for free coffee and the rare comedy for a price she only named in hushed secret whispers. Comedy, contrary to popular belief, was her secret weapon. She could make you laugh and laugh for days to come, an effect not always welcomed. Even They would come to her for stories because her stories had so much belief. She knew that every word she spoke had the potential to come true. So, if you wanted her to speak the words your heart desired… Well, let’s say you should not gamble anything you can’t afford to lose. 

And to gamble a name? Only a madman would do so. A madman, or a girl that wished her words to have power.


End file.
